heatwave - op81
✦ pairing: oscar x fem!oc (bestfriends!)
✦ warnings: 18+, MDNI, friends with benefits-ish, pure smut, explicit sexual content, dry humping, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, praise
✦ wc: ~10k+
a/n: requested!✨
"Then talk to me," Oscar pleads softly, his thumbs continuing those maddening, slow circles against your hips, completely unaware of what he’s doing to you. "If it's not money, and you're not hurt... what do you need my help with?"
"I'm..." You choke on the word, your face burning as the confession rips out of you in a breathless rush. "I'm horny, Oscar. I'm so turned on and I need help."
You lean against the kitchen counter, your bottom lip caught firmly between your teeth. From here, you have a perfect view of the living room, where Oscar is sprawled out on the couch, completely engrossed in whatever is playing on the TV.
Normally, he’s just Oscar. Your fiercely protective, incredibly reliable best friend. But right now? Your calendar application isn't lying, you are dead-center in your ovulation window, and every single nerve ending in your body is screaming. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the casual way his t-shirt clings to his shoulders, and a sudden wave of heat washes over you. You swallow hard, your hand mindlessly sliding down from your stomach, resting just above the aching warmth pooling between your thighs.
God, he looks so good. Or maybe you're just losing your mind. Either way, the urge to just walk over and slide onto his lap is becoming entirely overwhelming.
Your breathing hitches, a soft gasp escaping your lips as a particularly sharp jolt of desire hits you.
Right on cue, Oscar’s head turns.
You instantly freeze, forcing your hand away from your hip and smoothing down your shirt in a terrible attempt to act completely normal. He blinks, holding your gaze for a second before his attention drifts back to the screen.
You let out the breath you were holding. Your mind starts racing. What if I just ask him?
You’re both single. He’s not seeing anyone, you’re not seeing anyone. Oscar has literally never said no to helping you out with anything in his life. But asking your best friend to help you clear out a sudden, hormonal wave of arousal? That’s crossing a line. Right? Still, as you watch him shift on the sofa, the desperation wins. Just this once, you promise yourself. He’d understand.
Stepping out of the kitchen, your legs feel heavy, like you're walking through wet cement. You slowly make your way into the living room, stopping right at the edge of the sofa. Your body is practically vibrating with tension, your eyes darting anywhere,the coffee table, the TV, the rug, anywhere but his face. You bite your lip again, the question trapped in your throat.
Oscar notices the shadow looming over him. He glances up, his expression softening into that easygoing look.
"You good? Need something?" he asks, his voice low and casual.
Your chest tightens. How do I even say this out loud? Yes, he’d help you move apartments, he'd pick you up at three in the morning if your car broke down, but this?
When you don't answer, just standing there looking flushed and hesitant, Oscar sighs softly, a fond, amused sound. He pats his thighs twice. "Come here. Sit."
It’s a completely normal routine for the two of you. You've straddled his lap to vent about a bad day, or just to cuddle while watching a movie, a hundred times before. He’s always been your safe space.
You take a tentative step forward, your heart hammering against your ribs. You carefully sink down onto him, parting your knees to straddle his thighs, resting your hands on his broad shoulders.
The exact moment your heat presses against his lap, the friction sends a jolt straight up your spine. You can't help it, a sharp, needy gasp slips past your lips.
Oscar’s brows instantly furrow with concern. He completely ignores the TV now, his hand coming up to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingers on your cheek, his touch warm and grounded.
"Hey," he murmurs, searching your face. "Are you okay?’
"I-I'm fine," you stutter out, the lie tasting weak even to your own ears.
Driven by pure instinct, you deliberately slide your hips upward, dragging yourself against him just once, desperate to feel his heat even closer.
The second his large, warm palms settle firmly onto your hips, a visible shiver runs through you. He always holds you like this when you sit on his lap, it’s his default setting, just a natural way to steady you, but right now, the heat of his hands through the fabric of your clothes feels like absolute gasoline on a fire. Your core throbbed, a needy ache blooming deep inside you. You feel completely insane.
You are losing your mind, a tiny voice in your head whispers. Completely and utterly losing it.
Oscar’s grip tightens just a fraction, pulling you a millimeter closer as he studies your flushed face. His dark eyes are intense, filled with that fierce, protective instinct he always gets whenever he thinks you're upset.
"Baby, you look nervous," Oscar murmurs, his voice dropping into a lower, softer register. "What's wrong?"
Hearing that pet name, a name he’s tossed around casually for years, instantly short-circuits your brain. Right now, you don't want casual. You want him to pull you against him, drag his lips down your neck, and absolutely ruin you while growling that name into your ear.
You blink rapidly, your hands gripping his shoulders a little tighter just to keep yourself from unraveling completely. "N-nothing. Nothing's wrong. I'm... I'm totally fine."
Oscar’s eyebrows knit together. He clearly isn't buying it for a second. The tension radiating off your body is palpable, and he can feel the erratic thump of your pulse right through your chest.
"Hey," he says gently, his thumbs tracing soothing circles against your hip bones. "There’s obviously something going on. You know you can tell me anything, right? Whatever it is, I'm here."
You swallow hard, your throat incredibly dry. You look down at his chest, then back up to his eyes, your heart hammering so loudly you're convinced he can hear it. The honesty and pure devotion in his gaze give you a sudden, reckless burst of courage.
"I..." You choke on the words for a second, shifting your weight just a tiny bit, which forces another silent gasp from your throat as you feel the hard weight of him beneath you. "I just... I need your help with something."
"Okay," Oscar says instantly, not a single shred of hesitation in his voice. He gives your hips another reassuring squeeze. "Tell me what it is, baby. Whatever you need."
You bite your lip so hard you can taste the faint hint of copper. Your chest heaves as you stare at him, the words caught like a lump of ice in your throat.
Jesus. What is he going to think if you actually say it? This is Oscar. Your rock. The guy who watches trashy reality TV with you, who knows exactly how you take your coffee, who has been your platonic safe haven for years. If you ask him for this, you can’t ever un-ask it. The boundary won't just be blurred, it’ll be completely torched.
Oscar watches the internal war raging across your face. He can feel the way your fingers are practically digging into the fabric of his shirt. He misinterprets your frozen silence, his eyes widening slightly with sudden concern.
"Are you in trouble?" he asks, his voice sharpening with protective urgency. "Do you need money? Did something happen with your landlord? Just tell me the amount, I can transfer it right now."
You quickly shake your head, your throat too tight to speak.
"No? Okay..." He shifts beneath you, and the movement slides his heat directly against your aching center, making your toes curl inside your socks. Oscar’s eyes narrow as he tracks the sudden flash of tension in your expression. "Are you sick? Are you feeling ill? Do we need to go to the hospital?"
Again, you shake your head, a frantic little movement. "No, no, it's not... I'm not sick."
"Then talk to me," Oscar pleads softly, his thumbs continuing those maddening, slow circles against your hips, completely unaware of what he’s doing to you. "If it's not money, and you're not hurt... what do you need my help with?"
"Please, baby," Oscar pleads softly, his voice dropping an octave, filled with genuine worry. He brings one hand up from your hip to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling gently in your hair to guide your gaze back to his. "You're killing me here. Just tell me what's wrong."
The sheer devotion in his eyes, combined with the agonizing friction of sitting right on his lap while your body screams for him, finally pushes you over the edge. The filter snaps.
"I'm..." You choke on the word, your face burning as the confession rips out of you in a breathless rush. "I'm horny, Oscar. I'm so turned on and I need help."
The second the words leave your mouth, pure mortification hits you. Before you can even witness his reaction, you bury your burning face directly into the crook of his neck, hiding against his shoulder, your fingers gripping his t-shirt like a lifeline. Your breath hitches against his collarbone, hot and uneven.
Beneath you, Oscar completely freezes. The comforting, rhythmic stroking of his hand on your neck stops instantly. His entire muscular frame goes rigid as stone. The silence in the living room suddenly feels deafening, filled with a shock so thick you can practically taste it.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're pressed so tightly against him that you can feel the sudden, hard thump of his heart accelerating against your ribs.
Slowly, his hands on your hips tighten, but not in the gentle, best-friend way they did before. His grip is firm, grounding.
"Wait," Oscar's voice roughs up, a low, gravelly timbre that sends a violent shiver straight down your spine. He shifts slightly, his throat swallowing hard against your cheek. "...What did you just say?"
With your face still safely buried in the crook of his neck, the sudden shield of anonymity gives you a reckless surge of confidence. You can’t see the shock on his face, which means you can pretend the boundaries haven’t already shattered.
Driven by the overwhelming, heavy ache between your thighs, you slowly shift your weight. You press down, deliberately grinding your hips in a slow, agonizing circle right against his lap.
"I'm so, so horny, Oscar," you whimper into his skin, your voice dropping into a low, desperate confession. Your hands tighten on his shoulders, bunching the fabric of his shirt. "Please... you're the only one who can help me. I'm losing my mind."
You brace yourself, fully expecting him to push you off, to laugh it off, or to gently tell you that you've crossed a line.
But Oscar doesn't move to push you away. His hands stay locked on your hips.
And then, right beneath your shifting weight, you feel it, a sudden, distinct twitch. A hard, thick heat blooming rapidly right against your most sensitive spot.
The realization that he’s reacting to you, that you are doing that to him, sends a violent rush of adrenaline straight to your core. The hesitation completely evaporates. You grind down again, a little harder this time, letting out a soft, needy whine right against his collarbone.
"Oscar, please," you beg, your voice trembling as your hips keep up the slow, agonizing friction. "Please help me."
Oscar doesn't say a word, his mind clearly still spinning, trying to process the sudden shift from platonic comfort to absolute, unfiltered desire. He's frozen under you, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.
Needing to see him, to feel him closer, you finally lift your head from his shoulder. You lean in until your forehead rests gently against his, your eyes fluttering shut as the sheer intensity of the contact overwhelms you. With the last bit of your restraint gone, you quicken the pace, grinding your hips faster, dragging your heat firmly against the growing hardness beneath his jeans.
Oscar lets out a low, ragged growl from the back of his throat. His grip on your hips tightens instantly, his fingers digging into your skin with a sudden, possessive force that nearly makes you lose your breath. He isn't stopping you, he's holding you in place, anchoring you against him.
"Oscar," you whisper, your voice trembling, breathless and desperate as you keep up the rhythm. "You don't have to do anything. Just... just let me do this. Please. Just let me grind against you like this."
Oscar’s eyes burn into you, his gaze dark and unblinking as he tracks every single shift of your expression. He watches your eyes flutter shut, hears the ragged, uneven gasps ripping from your throat, and feels the heat of your body radiating right through his clothes. Beneath you, his own length responds completely, growing explicitly hard and heavy under the relentless friction of your hips.
The shock in his features melts into something raw and entirely unhinged.
"Okay," Oscar finally whispers, his voice so low and gravelly it vibrates right through your chest. His grip on your hips locks you down against him. "Okay, baby. Move. Just like that. Don't stop."
A wave of pure relief crashes over you, followed by a dizzying rush of confidence. "Thank you," you whimper against his lips, your voice thick with need.
Now that you have his permission, all your hesitation burns away. You shift your weight, tilting your pelvis to angle your hips perfectly over his rock-hard length. The alignment is flawless, pressing your throbbing core directly against the rigid line of him with every slow, deliberate slide.
"Fuck," you moan out, a breathless curse slipping past your lips as the agonizingly perfect pressure hits the exact spot you’re desperate for, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
You lift your head, straightening your posture as you ride the wave of friction, your chest heaving as you continue to rock your hips rhythmically against him. Arching your back slightly, you let out a shaky breath, your hands still desperately gripping his shoulders for leverage. He feels incredible,so incredibly big, thick, and unyielding beneath you, stretching the fabric of his jeans to the absolute limit. Every slow, heavy slide of your hips sends a direct shockwave of pleasure straight to your core.
Your eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and dark with desire, as you look down at Oscar. He’s staring up at you, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths, his usual calm demeanor completely shattered by the sight of you unravelling on top of him.
Needing more, needing his actual skin on yours, you reach down and wrap your fingers around his wrist. "Oscar... please," you plead, your voice a breathless, needy whisper.
Without waiting for him to recover from the sheer shock of it, you guide his large, warm hand upward, sliding it effortlessly underneath the hem of your shirt. You drag his palm up your ribcage until his long fingers cup the bare, sensitive skin of your breast.
"Jesus Christ," Oscar mutters, a low, ragged oath ripping from his throat. His fingers instantly twitch, his palm flattening against your burning skin as he finally catches up to the rhythm of your hips.
You apply a firm pressure to the back of his hand, silently communicating exactly what you crave as you guide his long, capable fingers to tighten around your bare breast. "Yeah... just like that," you whimper, your voice fracturing as your hips maintain their relentless, grinding rhythm against his lap. "Squeeze it, Oscar... please. It’s okay. You can touch me. Anywhere you want."
The permission seems to snap the last remaining thread of his self-control. Oscar let out a dark, ragged groan, his palm flattening fully against your soft, sensitive skin before his fingers dug in, squeezing and massaging your breast with a sudden, bruising possessiveness. The friction of his calloused thumb brushing rough over your hardened nipple, combined with the heavy, unyielding pressure of his erection prodding right against your aching center, completely short-circuited your brain.
"Fuck, baby," Oscar growled, his head tilting back against the sofa cushions as his grip on you turned entirely feral. He wasn't just letting you move against him anymore, his free hand clamped onto your hip, guiding your tilting pelvis to crash down even harder against his length, meeting every single one of your desperate, needy slides with a sharp, upward twitch of his own.
The sudden burst of confidence makes your hands fly to the hem of your shirt. In one swift, fluid motion, you pull it over your head and toss it blindly onto the floor, leaving yourself completely bare and exposed to him from the waist up.
Oscar’s eyes instantly widen, a sharp intake of breath hissing past his teeth. The raw, primal shock returns to his face, and for a split second, his gaze starts to flicker away toward the corner of the room, his deeply ingrained respect and best-friend instincts fighting a losing war against what's happening.
"Look at me," you whisper, refusing to let him retreat.
You reach down, wrapping your hands firmly around his jaw. Your fingers sink into his skin, forcing his head back up. The moment your eyes lock, his gaze drops, completely transfixed by the sight of your bare breasts rising and falling with your heavy breathing, your nipples tight and aching for his touch.
"Don't look away, Oscar," you whimper, tilting your pelvis down to grind heavily against him again, extracting a low, gravelly grunt from his chest.
Leaning down, you use your grip on his jaw to pull him closer, guiding his head directly toward the breast he was just massaging. You press the soft, full curve right against his lips, positioning your hardened peak right at his mouth.
"Please, Oscar," you beg, your voice breaking as you arch your back. "Taste me."
Oscar looks up at you, the final trace of hesitation completely evaporating from his expression. His eyes are incredibly dark, heavy-lidded, and clouded with a raw, unadulterated lust you’ve never seen in him before. He stares at your aching peak for a fraction of a second before his mouth opens, and he finally pulls your breast inside.
A deep, vibration-rich hum echoes from the back of his throat at the taste of your skin, his eyes shutting tight as he relishes the sensation.
"Ah... Oscar," you moan out, your head thrashing back as the heat of his mouth envelops you.
He wastes no time, swirling his warm, wet tongue flat over your hardened nipple, flicking and teasing the sensitive tip until your entire body goes taut. The intense rush of pleasure hits your brain like electricity. Driven by pure, frantic instinct, you tilt your pelvis forward, pressing your dripping heat as hard as you possibly can against the rigid length of his erection.
Oscar groans into your skin, his large hand instantly clamping down onto your hip bone, his fingers digging into your flesh with a bruising grip, forcing you to move faster, sliding you rhythmically and heavily against him.
He lets out a low, rough growl against your skin before switching sides, bringing his wet, heated mouth over to your other breast to give it the exact same, devastating attention. He sucks you in deep, his tongue swirling and flicking against the sensitive peak with a hunger that makes your toes curl. Hearing the high-pitched, undone whimpers and broken moans ripping from your throat only seems to fuel his fire, motivating him to tease you even harder.
"F-fuck, Oscar..." you gasp, your fingers knotting tightly into his hair, holding him close as your mind completely turns to mush.
Suddenly, Oscar shifts his strategy. He wraps both of his thick, muscular arms securely around your bare waist, anchoring you completely to his torso. With a deep breath, he leans all the way back against the plush cushions of the couch, his powerful grip pulling you down flat against him.
For a split second, the sudden change in position causes your hips to slide slightly away from his, breaking the perfect, friction-filled contact you’d been riding. A needy, frustrated whine escapes your lips at the sudden loss of pressure.
But Oscar isn't letting you go unsatisfied. With your waist locked tightly in his arms, Oscar arches his back and powerfully lifts his own hips upward, driving his rock-hard length right back into the apex of your thighs. He doesn't wait for you to start moving again. Taking complete control, he begins rolling his hips in a heavy, ruthless upward grind, moving entirely on his own accord now. Every sharp, deliberate thrust of his pelvis sends a jolt of pure, blinding electricity straight to your core, explicitly focused on pleasuring his best friend until you can barely breathe.
Oscar keeps driving his hips upward, each heavy, rolling grind pushing his rigid length perfectly against your aching center. Your head thrashes back, a loud, uninhibited groan ripping from your chest as the friction pushes you closer and closer to the edge.
Oscar doesn't take his eyes off you for a single second. He stares up at your undone, flushed face, watching your lips part and your chest heave. There’s a sudden, dark flash of pride in his eyes, his ego visibly feeding on the fact that he is the one making you make these sounds, that he can break your composure so completely.
Inside your head, any remaining coherent thoughts completely disintegrate. The sheer shock of Oscar dominating you like this, taking absolute control of your body while you’re completely at his mercy, sends another violent wave of arousal straight to your core. Your eyes flutter open for a fraction of a second, tracking the sharp line of his jaw, his own mouth slightly open as his breathing roughs up, his hips ruthlessly working beneath yours. Jesus. How have you gone years just looking at him as your best friend? He is hot. Like, completely, mind-numbingly hot.
Before you can even process the thought, Oscar shifts his rhythm.
He stops the rolling circles and starts driving his hips in a sharp, demanding up-and-down motion, mimicking the exact, punishing rhythm of fucking you right through your clothes. The sudden, raw force of the impact shatters your balance.
"Oh god, Oscar—!" you gasp out, your posture breaking.
Needing to anchor yourself against the heavy, relentless friction, you drop your head forward, burying your face right back into his shoulder. Your hands fly off his chest, one slinging securely around the back of his neck while the other presses flat against the back of the couch, your fingers digging into the fabric just to keep yourself steady as he relentlessly rides you from below.
The heavy, unyielding friction of his jeans against your dripping center is almost too much to bear. The blunt, rhythmic force of him driving upward into you sends shockwaves of heat radiating all the way down to your toes, making your thighs tremble where they flank his hips. Every single thrust is precise, heavy, and completely unbothered by the barrier of your clothes, threatening to push you over the precipice you've been teetering on since you were standing alone in the kitchen.
Oscar feels the sudden, tight clenching of your inner thighs, the way your entire body has gone completely rigid and reactive against his lap. He slows the brutal up-and-down pace just a fraction, shifting into a deeper, more agonizingly deliberate grind that presses his maximum width right against your sweetest spot.
He leans his head back against the cushion, tilting his chin down so his dark, hooded eyes can lock onto yours. His breath hitches, hot and ragged, fanning across your flushed cheeks.
"Baby," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a soft, gravelly register that vibrates right through your chest. He slides one hand up from your waist, his thick fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of your neck, gently anchoring you so you can't look away from him. "Talk to me. You like how this feels? You like what I'm doing to you?"
You try to form a coherent sentence, to tell him that he is completely destroying you in the best way possible, but your throat is too dry, your mind too clouded by the thick haze of your ovulation.
All you can do is stare down at him, your lips parted, your chest heaving as a desperate, needy whimper slips past your teeth. You nod your head frantically against his hand, your eyes pleading with him not to stop, your fingers digging so hard into the fabric of the couch that your knuckles turn stark white.
A low, satisfied rumble echoes deep in Oscar's chest at your reaction. His grip on your neck tightens just enough to pull your face down closer to his, his thumb stroking your jawline as his hips start to pick up the pace again, harder and more demanding than before.
"Good," he breathes out, his eyes darkening to a near-black as he watches your face unravel. "Because I'm not stopping until you get exactly what you came over here for."
The friction of your soaked underwear rubbing against his heavy denim becomes absolute torture. Driven by a primal, desperate hunger that completely consumes your mind, your hips lose all their hesitation, matching Oscar’s upward thrusts with a frantic, rhythmic rhythm of your own. Your moans grow louder, echoing in the quiet living room, completely uninhibited as your eyes flutter shut and your head falls back. Oscar groans beneath you, the slick, burning heat soaking through the fabric of your clothes making it blindingly obvious just how close you are to the edge. He can feel every twitch of your body, realizing you are absolutely starving for more.
Suddenly, his large hand slides up from your neck, his fingers splaying across your jawline to firmly cup your face. With a sudden, decisive tug, he pulls you down, forcing you to look at him for a split second before he slams his mouth against yours.
Your eyes fly wide open at the sudden, breathtaking impact of his lips.
For the first few seconds, Oscar keeps it steady. He just presses his lips firmly against yours, holding his ground, waiting to see if you're going to lean into it or pull back from crossing this final, irreversible line.
Inside your head, you are an absolute, chaotic mess. You’ve spent years looking at his mouth during casual conversations, sometimes thinking his lips looked a little pale, or a bit dry after a long race weekend. They’re a little dry right now, too, parched from the heavy, shallow breaths he’s been drawing while watching you ride his lap. But God, the texture, the heat, the sheer reality of Oscar kissing you is so intoxicating it makes your brain malfunction. The added intimacy sends a violent spike of intensity straight through your lower belly.
Any remaining hesitation evaporates. Your eyelids flutter shut, heavy and weighted with desire, and your lips part with a soft, needy whimper.
That tiny invitation is all Oscar needs. The moment your mouth opens, he lets out a low, rough growl against your lips. He tilts his head, slanting his mouth perfectly over yours, and begins to move his lips against yours with a deep, hungry pressure that completely steals the remaining air from your lungs.
Oscar’s hips suddenly grind to a halt beneath you, freezing in place just as you’re riding the highest wave of tension. A frustrated whimper catches in the back of your throat, but before you can even complain, his grip on your waist tightens into a iron clad hold. Without resuming his own movements, he uses the heavy pressure of his palms to guide your pelvis, silently commanding you to keep up the pace on your own while he completely loses himself in the kiss.
Oscar’s mind is spinning out of control. He doesn’t know what the hell has gotten into him. You’re his best friend. You grew up together. Even though you’re the exact same age, he’s always been the mature one, the grounded one, fiercely protective of you to the point where he sometimes felt more like a protective older brother than anything else. But God, looking down at you today? Seeing you flushed, trembling, and practically melting on his lap? How was he supposed to resist that? How could he possibly say no when you looked so incredibly needy, so utterly desperate for him, literally begging for his help?
The thought vanishes the second he swipes his warm, wet tongue across the seam of your lips, a silent, dominant demand for entry.
You don't hesitate for a fraction of a second, sliding your tongue against his, granting him complete access. Oscar lets out a low, ragged groan into your mouth as he pushes inside, his tongue tangling with yours in a deep, possessive stroke that makes you moan straight into his lips.
With Oscar focusing entirely on devouring your mouth, you take full control of the rhythm below. You lift yourself slightly, your thighs trembling as you drive your soaked center back down against his rigid length, sliding heavily over him in a fast, agonizingly perfect grind.
Needing that sensory overload to match the friction, you break one hand away from his shoulder. You slide your palm down the thick muscle of his bicep, grabbing his wrist and guiding his large hand right back up to your bare breast.
His fingers instantly curl around the soft, full curve, squeezing and massaging the sensitive flesh. He pinches and rolls your hardened nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and before you can even gasp at the pleasure, his other hand abandons your hip, flying up to cup your other breast. He treats them both to the exact, punishing attention you’re starving for, manipulating your nipples while your hips relentlessly ride his lap, blurring every single line left between you.
Oscar breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, his lips dragging roughly against yours as his chest heaves. His hands are still full of your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your highly sensitive nipples, but his breathing has turned completely erratic.
"Take them off," Oscar growls into your mouth, his voice raw, deep, and completely unrecognizable.
Your mind is a total blur of hormonal fog and blinding pleasure. You keep grinding your hips against him, your head tilting back as you try to catch your breath. "What...?" you whimper, completely confused, your eyes fluttering open to see him staring at you intensely "Take what off?"
Oscar's hands slide down from your chest, wrapping firmly around your waist to halt your movements mid-grind. The sudden loss of friction makes you let out a needy, frustrated whine, but he ignores it, his dark eyes locking onto yours with absolute authority.
"Your panties," he commands, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates straight down to your core. "Take them off. Completely. If you want my help so badly, I need you bare on me."
A soft gasp escapes your lips, the sheer weight of his command hitting you. But underneath the fleeting shock, a massive spike of raw excitement floods your chest. This was completely uncharted territory. You had spent the last twenty minutes pacing the kitchen, biting your lip raw, absolutely terrified that asking for his help would ruin everything. You expected him to be hesitant, maybe a little awkward, but Oscar never fails to surprise you. Seeing him completely take charge, his dark eyes demanding compliance, turns you on to a point of no return.
Playing into the sudden shift in power, you lower your eyes and pretend to act shy. You slowly push yourself up from his lap, your knees trembling slightly as your feet hit the floorboards. Oscar’s unblinking, heavy-lidded gaze follows your every move as you slide your hands down your waist, hooking your fingers into the waistband of your underwear. You step out of them slowly, tossing them onto the floor right next to your discarded shirt.
But before you can even think about your next move, Oscar shifts on the couch. His hands fly to his own belt and zipper. With practiced, efficient movements, he undoes his jeans and pushes his underwear down just enough to completely free his hard length.
Your eyes widen, your breath hitching in your throat. You’ve never seen him like this. He is incredibly big, thick, and fiercely hard, the skin down there heavily veined and glistening slightly at the tip. You immediately catch your bottom lip between your teeth again, your core pulsing with a violent, throbbing ache at the mere sight of him.
Seeing the look of pure, wide-eyed awe on your face, Oscar assumes you’re panicking, thinking he’s about to cross the ultimate line and take you right there on the couch.
His expression softens just a fraction, the fierce protectiveness returning to his eyes. He reaches out, wrapping a warm hand around your wrist and pulling you back toward him softly, anchoring you between his thighs.
"Hey," Oscar murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble as he guides you to straddle his lap once more. "Relax, baby."
You look up, your chest heaving as you rest your bare thighs over his.
"I'm not going to put it inside you," he promises gently, his thumbs tracing the sides of your waist to calm your racing pulse. He tilts his pelvis slightly, letting the hot, rigid head of his length brush right against your ultra-sensitive, soaking wet folds. You let out a broken whine at the contact. Oscar’s eyes darken, his jaw tightening. "I just want you to slide yourself all over it. No barriers. I just really need to feel you."
Fuck. He actually thinks you're scared. He thinks you're frozen because you're intimidated or worried about crossing the ultimate line, but in reality, your brain is just completely fried because you had absolutely no idea your best friend was packing that much.
Not wanting to make it awkward or let him think for even a second that you want to back out, you quickly swallow down the lump in your throat. You look up into his dark, waiting eyes, your voice a breathless whisper. "I want that too. I want to feel you."
Leaning forward, you brace your hands on his broad shoulders for support. You look down, your heart hammering against your ribs as you carefully guide yourself over him. You part your wet, swollen folds, aligning your dripping heat perfectly with the smooth, burning-hot head of his length.
Slowly, deliberately, you sink your weight back down.
The moment your bare, ultra-sensitive skin slides flat against his naked hardness, a simultaneous, ragged groan rips from both of your chests. It's an absolute sensory overload, skin-on-skin, zero barriers, just pure, slick friction.
"F-fuck," Oscar growls, his entire body jerking upward beneath you.
Before you can even catch your breath, his hand flies to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling roughly in your hair as he pulls you down into another bruising, desperate kiss. He devours your mouth, his tongue sliding inside to claim yours, completely matching the sudden, frantic energy consuming the room. At the same time, his other hand finds your bare breast, his large palm instantly squeezing and massaging the heavy slope, his thumb ruthlessly flicking your hardened nipple.
Inside your head, you are completely spinning out of control. Jesus Christ. The sheer, unadulterated pleasure of just sliding against his bare skin is enough to make your vision blur. He feels so incredibly good like this, so warm, so thick, and so perfectly hard against your most sensitive spot.
As you start to rock your hips forward and backward, dragging your wetness along the entire length of him, a dangerous, dizzying thought suddenly flashes through your hormone-addled brain.
If he feels this mind-numbingly incredible just riding against the outside... God, what would it feel like if he was literally inside you?
You throw all caution to the wind, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm that leaves you completely breathless. Every downward slide presses your bare, slick folds as hard as possible against his rigid length. Your head thrashes back, your spine arching elegantly as a loud, undone moan echoes through the living room.
Oscar responds to the shift instantly. His hands grip your waist to steady you against the sudden force, and he leans his head forward, burying his face in your chest to capture one of your bare breasts with his mouth. He sucks you in deep, his tongue swirling fiercely around your tight nipple, matching the desperate, bruising pace of your hips.
It feels too good. Way too good. The friction is a white-hot blur of pleasure, and the sheer desperation of your ovulation makes you crave even more. You want to go faster, to push harder, completely drunk on the sensation of his bare skin against yours.
"Oscar… fuck, you feel so good," you whimper out, your fingers digging into his hair, forcing his head tighter against your chest. "Please, Oscar... right there. Don't stop."
Hearing your undone praise, a dark, ragged growl rumbles against your skin. Oscar breaks away from your breast, his head lifting as he stares up at your completely ruined expression. His face is flushed, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles are jumping, and his eyes are completely black with lust.
He shifts underneath you, his powerful thighs locking yours in place, and he starts talking you through it in a low, commanding whisper.
"I won't," Oscar rasps, his breath hot and ragged against your neck as his hands drive your hips down into a heavier, deeper grind. "Go faster. Ride me just like that. Give me everything."
"Please, Oscar... please," you sob out, the words fracturing into desperate, high-pitched whimpers as you abandon all restraint. You throw your weight into the rhythm, your thighs shaking from the sheer exertion as you ride him faster and faster. The slick, frictionless heat between your bare bodies has reached a fever pitch. With every frantic, downward slide of your pelvis, the burning-hot, slippery tip of his length repeatedly misaligns from your folds and glances directly against your wide-open, aching entrance.
Every single time it hitches against that tight, weeping threshold, a violent shockwave of pure electricity triggers a contraction deep inside your belly. You arch your back until your spine is completely rigid, your head thrown back as a loud, wrecked groan rips from your throat. You are utterly consumed by the sensation, starving for the friction, practically grinding yourself raw against him just to chase that elusive, white-hot peak.
The sight of you completely unravelling, bare and begging on top of him, finally snaps whatever filters Oscar had left. The quiet, polite best friend is entirely gone, replaced by someone intensely possessive and dark.
"Look at you," Oscar rasps, his voice dropping into a filthy, gravelly timber that makes your core pulse violently. He doesn't take his eyes off your flushed face, his gaze heavy and unblinking as his large hands clamp onto your hip bones, ruthlessly anchoring you down against his lap. "Look how fucking desperate you are for your best friend. Look at you begging me for it."
A needy, embarrassed whimper escapes your lips, but you can't stop your hips from moving, your wetness smearing all over his rigid shaft.
"You're such a good girl, coming over here just to get ruined on my couch," he growls, a dark, arrogant smirk twitching at the corner of his lips as he listens to you cry out his name. He shifts his hips just a fraction, driving his pelvis up to meet your downward descent with a blunt, punishing force that knocks the wind right out of you. "Open your eyes and look at me. Tell me how much you need it. Tell me what a needy little mess you're being right now."
"Oscar, please—I'm losing it, I'm losing it," you scream softly, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, your eyes fluttering open just enough to see the sheer, dominant satisfaction bleeding through his features.
"I know you are, baby," he murmurs, his tone an intoxicating mix of praise and filth as his fingers dig into your skin, driving your trembling hips into an even faster, more merciless rhythm. "You're taking it so well. Just a pathetic, dripping little mess for me, aren't you? Keep going. Ride it out until you come for me."
Oscar’s grip on your hips turns completely punishing, his large hands sinking into your flesh with a bruising intensity that leaves zero room for escape. He clamps down, using his raw strength to pull you down against him even harder, forcing your pelvis to smash into his with a blunt, rhythmic force that shatters whatever remains of your composure. You are completely at his mercy, caught in a white-hot vortex of friction and dirty talk, your body moving on pure, frantic instinct.
You grind and grind on him, your thighs shaking violently, the slick wetness of your ovulation making the contact dangerously slippery. The rhythm becomes too fast, too chaotic, and on one desperate, heavy downward descent, your alignment shifts completely. The blunt, burning-hot tip of his length doesn't just slide against your folds anymore, it finds the exact, weeping center of your entrance and, with the sheer momentum of your weight, punches straight through the tight threshold.
His hard length completely enters you in one swift, unyielding stretch.
"Ah! Oh my god—fuck!" you scream out, a loud, wrecked groan ripping from the absolute depth of your chest, echoing sharply against the quiet walls of the living room.
“Fuck… me, man.” Oscar lets out a violent, guttural curse of his own, his entire upper body jerking off the couch cushions as his spine goes completely rigid.
Your frantic movements instantly grind to a dead halt. You freeze, your breath completely catching in your throat as your hands claw desperately at his broad shoulders for balance. You gasp for air, your chest heaving in rapid, shallow pants, your mind completely short-circuiting from the sheer magnitude of the sensation. The sudden, total fullness is staggering. You can feel every single vein, the thick, pulsing heat of him stretching you open to your absolute limit, filling you so completely that it feels like your entire lower belly is on fire.
Panic and pleasure war in your head, the realization of what you’ve just done crashing down on you. Tears of pure sensory overload prick at the corners of your eyes. You look down at him, your voice trembling and broken. "Oscar... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"
But Oscar isn't listening. He is already far too consumed, driven entirely by a primal, dominant urge that has been building since you first sat on his lap. His face is completely flushed, his jaw locked so tight the cords in his neck are straining, and his eyes are completely black with unadulterated lust.
Instead of letting you back off or slide away, his hands lock like vices onto your waist. He lets out a low, growling pant, tilting his pelvis upward with a powerful, deliberate heave of his thighs, ruthlessly pushing his remaining length even deeper inside you until he is buried to the absolute root.
A high-pitched, completely undone moan tears from your throat, the sound vibrating with the sheer intensity of the stretch. The feeling of him buried completely inside you, his thick, pulsing heat filling every single inch of your aching center, sends a violent tremor through your thighs. You are entirely pinned by his weight and his size, unable to move, unable to think, your fingers clawing desperately into the fabric of his shirt just to keep yourself grounded.
Oscar lets out a long, ragged exhale against your neck, his hands remaining locked on your waist to steady your trembling frame. "It's fine... baby, it's fine," he rasps, his voice deep, strained, and entirely unraveled. He hitches his hips up just a fraction of a millimeter, trying to acclimate to the staggering warmth of your inner walls, before letting out a sharp, breathless curse. "Fuck, you're so tight. You're squeezing the life out of me."
Hearing him say it out loud, hearing the raw, gritty evidence of how much you affect him, sends a sudden, involuntary spike of arousal to your core. Your internal muscles react instantly, clenching around his thick shaft in a series of tight, desperate pulses.
Oscar’s entire upper body goes rigid beneath you. He lets out another harsh, guttural curse, his eyes shutting tight as his brow furrows in a mask of pure, concentrated endurance. The sheer force of your wet contraction almost pushes him completely over the edge right then and there. His knuckles turn white where they hold your hips, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles jump violently beneath his skin. He stays perfectly still for a long, agonizing moment, just breathing through the overwhelming pressure, waiting for the initial wave of friction to settle.
Slowly, his eyes flutter open, dark, heavily hooded, and swimming with a deep, protective tenderness that cuts right through the thick haze of lust. He looks up at your flushed, tear-stained face, taking in your ragged breathing and the way your chest heaves against the open air.
He slides one hand up from your waist, his large, warm palm cupping your jawline with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the raw power of his lower body. He strokes his thumb over your trembling lower lip, his voice dropping into a soft, hesitant whisper.
"Hey," he murmurs, his dark eyes searching yours, checking in on his best friend despite the absolute torture of staying still inside you. "Talk to me, baby. Are you okay? Do you still want to continue?"
You nod your head frantically, the motion desperate as you lean down closer to his face, your tears of sheer pleasure wetting his cheek.
"Yes... yes, Oscar, please don't stop," you whimper, your voice cracking with the unbearable tension coiling in your lower belly. The tight, pulsing contractions of your core are making it impossible to think straight. "I need your help even more now. I'm so close, Oscar. Seriously, you stopping right now is actual torture. Please."
Hearing your breathless, frantic reassurance, the tense lines on Oscar’s face suddenly break. A low, breathless, and incredibly relieved laugh bubbles up from his chest, his shoulders relaxing just enough to let out a long, shuddering exhale. He is clearly thrilled that he hasn't broken you, and even more thrilled that you're demanding he keep going.
"You're going to be the absolute death of me, you know that?" he rasps, his fingers digging back into your hips, his thumbs stroking the crest of your bones.
But you are completely past the point of casual banter. The raw fullness of him stretched inside you is driving you insane, and the finish line is right there, dangling just out of reach. You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder as you ask for his help one last time, completely abandoning any remaining shred of modesty.
"Oscar, please," you beg against his skin, your voice dropping into a dirty, desperate whine that completely shatters his composure. "Help me. Just fuck my brains out and make me come. I need it so bad."
The raw, uninhibited demand acts like a match to gasoline. His eyes go instantly dark, a feral, dominant heat taking over his expression as his grip on your waist tightens until it’s almost bruising.
"Fucking gladly," he growls into your ear.
Without giving you another second to prepare, Oscar arches his back and drives his hips upward with a sudden, devastating force, beginning a relentless, punishing rhythm from below that threatens to completely break you apart.
His fingers dig so deeply into your hip bones that your skin instantly flushes red under the pressure, anchoring you securely against his lap so you can't escape the sudden, terrifying depth of his thrusts.
With a low, guttural grunt that ripples right through his broad chest, Oscar arches his back and drives upward. He doesn't just push, he slams his pelvis against yours with a blunt, merciless force that sends him buried to the absolute root.
"Ah! Oscar—!"
The word is completely knocked out of you, dissolving into a high-pitched, wrecked scream that bounces off the walls of his quiet living room. The impact is staggering. Your eyes fly wide open, your vision blurring. He is so thick, so impossibly hard, and the friction of his bare skin stretching you open from the inside out is almost too much to process.
Before you can even catch your breath or blink away the tears gathering in your eyes, Oscar pulls you down by the waist and drives upward again. And again.
He locks into a relentless, punishing rhythm, using his sheer lower-body strength to dictate the pace from below. Because you are straddling him, every single upward heave of his thighs forces him deeper into your tight, weeping channel, hitting your g-spot with an accuracy that makes your entire body go rigid. The slick, burning heat of your ovulation acts as the perfect lubricant, allowing him to slide in and out of you with a heavy, wet rhythm that echoes obscenely between your bodies.
"You wanted it," Oscar rasps against your ear, his voice a dark, gritty growl that sends shivers straight down your spine. His breathing is completely shot, coming in ragged, shallow pants as he pumps ruthlessly into you. "You asked for this, baby. Look at you taking all of me."
You are a chaotic, desperate mess. You claw at his shoulders, your fingernails digging through the fabric of his shirt into his muscles just to stay upright as he relentlessly rides you. Your head thrashes back against the cushion, your spine arching elegantly as you give into the raw power of his movements. Every time he hits the deepest point of your entrance, your inner walls clench frantically around him in tight, involuntary spasms, desperately trying to hold onto the immense fullness.
"F-fuck, Oscar... I can't... it's too much," you sob out, your voice cracking as the white-hot tension in your lower belly winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap.
Hearing you unravel, hearing the sheer desperation in your voice, only seems to fuel Oscar’s dominance. He lets out a rough, ragged curse into the crook of your neck, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles jump. He shifts his grip from your hips, sliding his large hands up your torso to cup your bare breasts, squeezing them roughly as his pelvis continues to hammer into yours without a single second of hesitation.
"Don't you dare close your eyes," he commands, his voice dropping into a filthy, breathless whisper that leaves you entirely undone. He tilts his head up, his dark, hooded eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that burns. "Look at me while I do this to you, baby. Tell me you're coming for me."
You look down at him through a heavy haze of tears and lust, your lips parted as you gasp for air. Seeing his flushed face, his sweat-sheened forehead, and the absolute, possessive hunger in his eyes makes your core pulse violently. The finish line is right there, hovering on the horizon, and you are completely powerless against it.
"I am... Oscar, I am—!" you scream softly, your voice breaking as your entire body begins to tremble at the absolute precipice of release.
The moment the admission leaves your lips, Oscar’s internal restraint completely snaps. Knowing he has you right on the absolute edge, feeling the tight, violent contractions of your walls starting to rhythmically squeeze his length, pushes him past his own point of no return.
His pace turns frantic, losing all its rhythm and turning into something pure, desperate, and dominant. His hips hammer up into yours with a bruising, unyielding speed, burying himself as deep as humanly possible with every single strike. The heavy, wet sound of your bodies slamming together fills the quiet living room, a relentless rhythm matching the chaos in your chest.
"That's it, baby... come for me," Oscar groans out, his voice a completely broken, gravelly rasp against your skin. His fingers dig so hard into your waist that he’s practically lifting you off the cushions just to drive himself higher inside you. "Let it go. Give it all to me."
The sheer force of his final, punishing thrusts is the exact catalyst you need. Your vision goes entirely white. A loud, fractured scream rips from your throat as your orgasm tears through you, a violent, blinding explosion of pure pleasure that causes your inner walls to lock down on him in a vice-like grip, clamping around his thick shaft in wave after wave of intense, crushing spasms.
Feeling you completely unravel, the tight, milking pressure of your climax instantly triggers his own.
Oscar lets out a deep, guttural roar, a raw, primal sound that shakes right through his broad chest. His eyes shut tight, his features twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated ecstasy as his body goes entirely rigid beneath you. His hands clamp onto your hips with an iron grip, locking you flat against his pelvis as he throws his hips upward one last time, driving himself to the absolute hilt.
He shudders violently beneath you, his thighs trembling as he releases his entire climax deep inside you, the intense, pulsing heat of his release flooding your core and sending a secondary, lingering wave of electricity straight to your clenching muscles.
For several long, breathless moments, the world completely stops.
Oscar remains arched upward, his chest heaving in heavy, ragged gasps as he rides out the aftershocks of the most intense release of his life. Your head slumps forward onto his shoulder, your forehead resting against his damp skin as you both pant heavily into the quiet room, completely spent, thoroughly ruined, and entirely bound by the line you had just permanently crossed.
Slowly, the frantic, iron-clad grip Oscar had on your waist begins to loosen. His large, calloused hand relaxes, sliding up from your hip bone to trace a slow, soothing path up the bare skin of your back.
His palm is warm, a comforting contrast to the raw, dominant energy he was channeling just moments ago. He begins to rub your back in wide, heavy circles, his thumb gently smoothing over the tense muscles of your spine, silently helping your racing heart slow down as he tries to catch his own breath. Every deep, shuddering exhale he takes rumbles directly against your chest, his chest heaving under you in steady, grounding waves.
"You're okay.," Oscar murmurs, his voice incredibly deep, rough, and entirely spent. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head, his lips warm against your hair. "Just breathe, baby."
You let out a soft, shaky breath against his neck, your fingers still weakly clutching the fabric of his shirt. The sudden, tender shift back to the Oscar you know, the protective, gentle best friend, makes your chest tighten with an entirely different kind of intensity. You shift your weight slightly, a tiny, involuntary twitch of your core reminding you both that he is still buried deep inside you.
Oscar lets out a low, breathless groan at the sensation, his hand pausing on your upper back as his grip tightens just a fraction, a warning and a promise all at once.
Your thighs are trembling so violently that they feel entirely like jelly, the muscles completely spent from the sheer exertion of holding yourself up.
"Oscar..." you whisper against his neck, your voice tiny and completely raw. "My legs... they feel so numb. I don't think I can move."
A low, understanding rumble vibrates through his chest. "I got you," he murmurs.
He maneuvers you with such gentleness, shifting his own body until he is hovering directly over you, slowly lowering your back onto the soft cushions of the couch. Your legs naturally drape over the outside of his thighs, and the change in angle forces him even deeper into your core, making your eyes flutter shut as another needy whimper escapes your lips. He rests his weight on his forearms, framing your head, his dark eyes looking down at you with a mixture of intense satisfaction and protective warmth.
Keeping his lower body perfectly still to avoid overstimulating you, Oscar stretches one long arm out toward the edge of the coffee table, his fingers hooking around the box of tissues.
You blink up at him through the haze of your afterglow, your chest still heaving as you watch him pull a handful of them free. "What are you doing?" you ask, your voice breathless and confused.
Oscar lets out a low, gritty chuckle, his eyes darkening slightly as he looks down at the exact point where your bodies are still seamlessly joined.
"We're both going to make an absolute mess on my couch if I pull out right now without a plan, baby," he rasps, a faint, boyish smirk touching his lips despite how thoroughly he just ruined you. He folds the tissues in one hand, bringing his other arm back to support himself as he looks down at you. "You're completely dripping, and I came inside you. I'm trying to save my cushions."
A fierce, hot blush instantly rushes up your neck, flooding your cheeks with a brilliant crimson that you can’t possibly hide. The sheer, unvarnished honesty of his words catches you completely off guard, cutting right through the lingering, blissful fog of your orgasm. You’ve known Oscar for a lifetime, you’ve shared secrets, milestones, and countless mundane moments, but hearing him speak so casually and explicitly about your body’s raw response to him makes you feel embarrassed.
"Oscar, shut up," you whimper, your voice cracking as you reflexively try to turn your face away, burying your burning cheek into the soft fabric of the couch cushion. You lift a trembling hand, weakly pressing your palm against his broad shoulder as if you could actually push his heavy, muscular frame away from you. "Don't say it like that."
Oscar lets out a low, deeply amused rumble that vibrates directly against your bare breasts, the sound rich and incredibly warm. He doesn't let you hide. He deliberately shifts his weight, pressing his lower body just a fraction of a millimeter deeper into your slick warmth, a subtle movement that extracts a tiny, helpless gasp from your throat and reminds you exactly how thoroughly he fills you.
"Why shouldn't I say it?" he rasps softly, his tone dropping into a teasing but intensely possessive whisper. He brings his free hand up, his long, warm fingers gently cupping your jawline to turn your face back toward him, forcing you to meet his heavy-lidded, dark gaze. There isn't a single shred of judgment in his eyes, only an immense, arrogant satisfaction that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. "It’s the truth, baby. Look at me. You were a beautiful, soaking-wet mess for me the second you sat on my lap, and you know it."
You swallow hard, your eyes fluttering shut for a brief second under the sheer intensity of his stare. The contrast between his gentle touch on your face and the thick, rigid reality of him still buried inside your weeping core is almost too much to handle. Your internal muscles give a tiny, involuntary twitch, clenching around his thick shaft in a lingering aftershock, and Oscar’s breath catches sharply in his throat, his jaw tightening as he suppresses a groan.
"See?" he murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle over your flushed cheekbone as his breathing hitches. "You're still doing it. Still squeezing me. There’s absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about when you take me this well."
"You are so annoying," you mutter, rolling your eyes playfully even as your face burns a brighter shade of red.
Oscar just lets out a low, breathless laugh, the rich sound vibrating warm against your skin. "Yeah, yeah. Tell me that again when you're not shaking underneath me."
With his folded tissues held ready, he braces himself and begins to pull out. He moves slowly, deliberately, giving your body a chance to adjust to the sudden loss of fullness. A soft, high-pitched whimper slips past your lips at the sensation of him leaving you, your inner walls giving one last, futile twitch as his thick length slides completely free. The second he clears your entrance, a warm, slick rush of your combined fluids begins to drip out of you. Oscar is right there, expertly catching the mess with the tissues before a single drop can hit his couch cushions.
You lay back against the pillows, your chest still heaving as you watch him through heavy lids. Oscar tosses the soiled tissues into a small trash bin by the desk, then immediately reaches back out to the coffee table, pulling a fresh handful from the box.
Instead of cleaning himself first, he shifts back between your thighs. With complete gentleness, he uses his large, warm hands to carefully part your trembling legs a bit wider. Your breath catches in your throat as he leans over you, using the clean tissues to carefully and meticulously wipe away the slick, wet warmth tracing the insides of your thighs and your swollen folds.
Watching him take care of you with such focused, unbothered devotion makes a lump form in your throat. "Thanks, Oscar," you whisper shyly, your fingers nervously clutching the edge of a throw pillow. "You know... for helping me."
Oscar pauses. He shifts his weight onto one forearm, hovering over you as his dark, hooded eyes slowly lift to lock onto yours. He stares at you for a long, unblinking moment, as if he’s memorizing every single flush on your skin, every ragged breath you take.
"Always, baby," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight down to your core.
Another massive wave of heat floods your cheeks, and you have to avert your eyes because the sheer weight of his gaze is overwhelming. The way he is looking at you right now, with a fierce, consuming possessiveness and a terrifyingly deep tenderness, doesn't feel like the Oscar you've known your entire life. It doesn't feel like your childhood best friend, and it certainly doesn't feel like a protective big brother.
It feels entirely like a man who has just permanently claimed the woman he loves, and there is absolutely no going back.
—
